7:32am. Watching Jack all day. So the writing need be speedy. Only goal today, I just resolved making my coffee here in castle: 1000 SALABLE words. For book. Yesterday’s writing, all to paper, all ink. Austen-esque. First time I’m done that in many days. Wrote a fair amount, too. Mostly spoken word. All my grading, done. Finally.
Jack, throwing everything he can onto floor, testing his writing father. Maybe telling me, “Take a break, Papa! We’re here together. Work isn’t necessary.” I agree, and I really shouldn’t be typing like this in front of him. He makes more sounds, ordering something of his toys, but I can’t translate. So tornado’d with Life, energy, CURIOSITY, this little character. Teaching me, showing me what I’m not doing.
Rain, still forecasted. Had an image of my character at his Comp Book, in a hotel in Maine, looking out at thickly misted Atlantic surface. He’d write only in verse, song. Have a full manuscript completed by coffee 3. Like me. The same? Maybe. Haven’t written that page, yet.
The old blog entries, looked at last night. Interesting to see how my perspective on matters, encompassing world view changes in just a couple years. Had the Rosé last night, what was left. It lost a bit of its vigor. Do I have an interest in producing a Rosé? No. But I do enjoy drinking ones with life, a uniquely distinct turn on the style.
Jack, now watching the morning news with his Papa, still tossing those colored plastic rings onto the floor for me to fetch. I need to fetch my dreams, this dream of writing on the road, reading in front of crowds around country, world. One of my students, from 2008, again contacted me for some counsel on a statement of purpose, other writings she’s to submit for the purpose of a medical school application. I’m honored and flattered that she has such an estimation of my abilities, teachings. She disclosed in an email written a couple months ago that her notebooks from my class are some of the only she’s kept from undergrad. This, another reminder, to just move forward with my books. I need to show my past students, well as my currents, that I’m a writer, not just one who “teaches.”
note from comp book– Full-timer in instructors lounge, barely saying hello to me after I offered, “Hello.” Doesn’t bother me a bit. And this FT-er gave some talk on Huck Finn, years ago when I had a section of 100, and he did so with such Self-ascension, such air, such bravado and bluster. Who does he think he is? What happened to Humility, reservedness? If he’s so profound and prolific, ever Orphic, occult in his interpretations of Literature, knowing for certain what effective Lit is, then why not offer his hat to our ring?
8:25am. Have to close session, clock out for a bit. Little Kerouac getting restless. I’m sure this typing’s annoying him. Me as well, little friend. Off to day’s thousand. Hopefully on actual page. Second cup. Now I’ll keep up with this wagging hurricane.